March 22nd, 2003


Dream Diary: Spike

As the dream starts, the entire Buffy gang is spending the night in an overcrowded caravan--so overcrowded that a heap of five or six people are sharing the surface of a bed. Somewhere in the room, a woman is giving painful birth with her belly splitting open redly, rather like a Jaffa's when the Gou'ald parasite is surfacing. I head to the bed and cuddle next to Spike. He's sitting morosely against the wall, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself with deathlike rigidity. I tell him he can relax, and end up pulling his stiff body to rest against my knees--if you've seen that episode where Scully does the same for a shivering Mulder, you'll get a perfect visual. He slowly relaxes, and I rub his incredibly muscular back and essentially feel him up for a very long time.

Later, Spike has climbed high atop a free-standing trapeze platform planted within a crowd of hundreds of kids, and he's playing an electric guitar and doing a rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower." (He sings much better than James Marsters.) He sings one more song after that, and when he's done a nerd in the crowd wants to make a request. Spike scoffs, but the guy pulls out a checkbook and starts writing checks, first for a few bucks, which Spike turns down, then for fifty thousand dollars. But Spike repeatedly holds out for a million, and the guy finally capitulates. "And it has to clear," Spike says mildly. "I can give you my Swiss bank account number." The crowd titters in pleasure. Bested, the kid sighs. "You can transmit it through your laptop," Spike says, "And I'll read it through my PDA." Kid transmits the funds. When Spike confirms it has arrived he says, right then, what'll it be?

Spike proceeds to croon "Mandy" to invisible karaoke accompaniment. Except that the background music must be magically adapting itself to his performance, because he riffs this rich, soulful, painful version--he's thinking the entire time of Dru--and also the lyrics are rather different. Whatever it is, it's definitely Manilow.

The police arrive as Spike finishes. He escapes through a window, scales down the exterior wall, and runs to the caravan, where he retreats to a back room after snarking with Cordelia. In the room he spots her Godiva chocolate truffles and begins eating them in revenge.

Through the open door, Spike is spotted by a floppy-haired man who has just seen him sing. In wide-eyed awe, the man comes back and starts getting fannish. Also in the room now are about seven or eight girls--think of them as potentials if you like--who are hanging with Spike. One makes an unclear remark, something about giving a blow job with chocolate. Taking this as a dare, Spike coolly drops to his knees in front of their visitor and, mouth coated with melted chocolate, blows him in front of the gaggle of girls, who watch avidly for pointers. As he's coming, the man asks the girls if Spike ever vomits, but Spike swallows. Man, breathless and grateful, says that it's been seven years. Spike: "About damn time, then." Man apologizes and says that it's a shame Spike is going to die. Spike: eh? Man says he's been poisoned. Spike asks what the fuck? Man says, "Oh, I'm quite mad, you see."

Spike rears back on his heels in disgust and speculates in a tired, resigned voice that it's arsenic. He knows he won't die but says to the man, "You're going to be hurt quite a lot now. I hope it will be Buffy. I always like to watch that." He tells someone to get the others, and a girl runs to collect Buffy, Willow, Xander, Giles, Riley, et al. They troop in and after some back-and-forth Willow does something painful to the man's dick to get him to tell what the poisons are, and on hearing the list reassures Spike that he'll live. Adds, "Though I'm beginning to figure out how the posion was transmitted, and yuch." Buffy doesn't get it. Spike barks to the room: "None of you say a word! Don't tell and she'll never figure it out." Buffy, pouty: "I will too!"

Spike groans and flops back on the floor and begins to have seizures.

You might think I made this dream up or at least embellished parts of it, but you'd be wrong, wrong, wrong.

hail and pancakes

The sky is bouncing hailstones off the earth here; I'm in a semi-basement apartment, so my windows are level with the ground and I can see them rattling onto the gravel inches from my nose. Fun.

I just finished reading a fantastic story, The Scarab, which is a very long, very gen, and amazingly well conceived Stargate/Buffy crossover. Dialogue and action oriented, with solid characterizations; very much an ensemble piece. "Super neat!" is really all I can bleat about this. Set aside at least three hours and go read, okay?

I'll have to venture out into the hail if I want pancakes. Cold, wet, miserable day. It's really not something I want to do, but I'm starving and the IHOP won't bring pancakes to me. It'd be kind of awesome if they did, though pancakes are best when they're fresh off the griddle. You wouldn't want thirty-minute delivery pancakes. Someone should invent traveling mini-kitchens. Pancakes for Shut-Ins!

I am a slave to the cake.


sunshine and pancakes

I went to IHOP and got the breakfast sampler, which has not only pancakes, but lots of meat! And eggs...and hashbrowns.

While I was eating the sun came out, and now it's a beautiful day.

On the way there and back, the radio played all the right sing-along songs.

Then I came home and blew some bubbles.

I had a window of happiness for an hour or so, and its effects are lingering. (And this is the first day of my week off!) I'm kind of stuffed and sleepy now, though. I sit here and fiddle around to avoid launching into a real effort of writing. If there was anything at all to watch on my 300 cable channels, I'd be prostrate on the couch about now. Instead, like a true livejournalist, I'm spamming everyone with breakfast-and-weather filler.

What to do, what to do....